


how rare & beautiful it truly is (that we exist)

by nutmeg101



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Soulmates, Soulmates Clarke Griffin/Lexa, haha so cliche
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-06-10 07:53:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6946438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nutmeg101/pseuds/nutmeg101
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>lexa owns a flower shop. clarke stumbles in one day. it's just as cliche as you think it is with a healthy serving of sadness.</p>
<p>+</p>
<p>
  <i>Lexa watches as a swoop of a blonde hair ushers in from the front door. The girl’s demeanor looks disoriented and lost. Through the window, she had watched her get out of her car across the street and stray about on the sidewalk. Her pace had been unhurried, but calculated. With something forming in the pit of her stomach, Lexa had idly hoped this would be her intended destination.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	how rare & beautiful it truly is (that we exist)

**Author's Note:**

> listen first or during idk it's up to you:
> 
> _https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h3lWwMHFhnA_

It’s late May the first time Clarke meets Lexa.

It’s late May when Clarke starts to lose herself again after almost getting herself back.

It’s late May when Clarke _breaks._

The air is warm and muggy with spring and the cherry blossoms have turned the city pink with promise. Above Clarke, the afternoon sun is bright and kisses fiercely onto her shoulders. This is the time of year when Washington, DC starts to feel like a swamp. Horrid as it may be, Clarke is none the stranger. It’s a staple of her childhood, really; only this time it feels so different.

Different without _him._  

Today the rubber soles of her shoes drag against the pavement as she aimlessly dodges in an around small clusters of people and wanders into an unfamiliar flower shop in an only somewhat familiar part of town.

The shop is small and nestled right on the street corner where the perimeter is dotted with buckets and bushels of different floral arrangements. Perched right by the front entrance is a rusty bicycle with vines and stems weaved throughout the aluminum frame.

_Cute,_ she thinks.

Clarke is all puffy cheeked and red eyed after having sat in her car for far too long willing herself to get out; to do this thing that she doesn’t want to, but that her mother has urged her to. And Clarke knows she means well, her mother’s words of encouragement ringing in her ears, the forged strength behind it all. ( _“You should really go visit him. Bring him something nice, like flowers or read him a book. He’ll like that and it’ll be good for you.”_ ) But it’s just so difficult to feel good or better about this when all her bones still carry the weight of sadness. 

Clarke hides it well though, she’s used to it. The lingering tears and smudged mascara, the constant tremor in her voice. She has become accustomed to feeling nothing at all and then everything all at once and then having to pretend like she doesn’t, like everything is fine and nothing hurts. It’s a sad, well-crafted art that she wishes she _weren’t_ so good at.

The door to the flower shop chimes when she opens it and the fragrances all at once are overwhelming. It’s bigger than it looks from the outside, rows and shelves of mutlicoloured effervescence. Yellows, and pinks, and purples, and reds. A small makeshift jungle in an otherwise urban metropolis. There’s a quiet humming of a cooler muffled underneath the classical music that croons from somewhere in the ceiling.

She forces a smile and a weak “hello” at the girl who greets her from behind a row of daisies and lilacs without really looking at her. With her head down, Clarke numbly ambles through the rows of flowerpots and bouquets until she has, for just one moment, forgotten why she has actually come here in the first place.

+

Lexa watches as a swoop of a blonde hair ushers in from the front door. The girl’s demeanor looks disoriented and lost. Through the window, she had watched her get out of her car across the street and stray about on the sidewalk. Her pace had been unhurried, but calculated. With something forming in the pit of her stomach, Lexa had idly hoped _this_ would be her intended destination.

As much as Lexa doesn’t want to be here today of all the days of the year, she is. She loves it here, there’s no questioning that. After all, she had spent almost all of savings to open this place up; she had poured her heart and soul into it. She had done it for _her._ In commemoration; her name is still etched into the bike out front.

“COSTIA” in small letters on the handlebar. But always on this specific day for the past three years, the memories are the most vivid and hurt the worst. It doesn’t help that there has hardly been a soul in here all day. 

“Good afternoon,” Lexa calls from where she’s standing, trying for her most enthusiastic self. She only catches a fleeting glimpse of a smile and a soft hello before the girl shrinks into herself, hands tucked into her pockets, and disappears behind a row of roses.

Lexa _should_ go over, like she does with anyone who walks in, but today she hangs back. Today, just for a while, she’ll observe from a distance. There’s something to be said about how instinctual and compelling it feels to want to _run_ to her, but yet the force feels so much bigger than herself that it cements her to the ground. 

The girl’s blonde hair flashes in and out between the plants that hang from the ceiling and the moment Lexa catches her gaze, like really catches it, she drops the garden shears that are in her hands and they tumble to the floor with a clink. So much for always being so deft and graceful. 

As quickly as it takes for Lexa to retrieve the fallen instrument, the girl has drifted just out of sight, only the material of her t-shirt peeking from beyond the spinning rack of greeting cards. Lexa lets her be for a while longer, keeping her distance with a watchful eye.

She moves with poise, the girl, and yet she oozes with grief. There’s a tinge of something else too—this sort of unspoken _savior faire_ —and it touches Lexa, draws her.

Silly to think it, even more absurd to feel it, but for the first time in a long time, Lexa feels something stir inside of her.

She feels… _alive._

+ 

The smell of the roses before Clarke is poignant; sharp with the nostalgia of all the years her father would buy them for her for Valentine’s Day because they were and still are her favourite. It’s cliché and corny, she thinks, to love roses this much, but she does. They will always make her smile. And then she has floated far away enough from reality that she doesn’t quite notice the hanging potted plant above her until a leaf brushes at her cheek. 

That’s when she feels a presence behind her, telltale goosebumps prickling at her neck. It’s followed by a pleasant sounding, “hey, do you need a hand with anything?” from over her shoulder. 

Clarke stiffens and swallows back the sudden, but familiar unwanted pang of ache she’s been feeling in waves for the past few days and then turns around. She’s brave, kind of. She’s hoping that when she turns around her face doesn’t give too much away, that her aura doesn’t suffuse the domesticated nature with blackness.

She’s brave. She’s brave. 

That is, until her gaze starts at the girl’s nametag that reads _“Lexa”_ and lifts. Then she’s stunned into silence. 

Those _eyes._  

And they sure are _something_. They remind Clarke of the woods, her youth; a happier time. Those eyes, they command and they sparkle among all the things that surround them, so green and bright. 

So…familiar?

Surely they haven’t met before. 

Clarke blinks.

+ 

Lexa blinks.

Wow.

It’s like looking into the sky. Blue irises captivate and move her. Her breath catches in her throat, her heart triples in speed.

It feels like galaxies colliding.

Like cosmos exploding.

+

Reality.

_(Clarke repeats her name in her head multiple times. Lexa, Lexa. It’s beautiful.)_

Lexa smiles and if she does sense anything, she stays unmoved which Clarke is thankful for. 

“I—I need flowers,” Clarke finally stammers.

“Of course. That’s why you’ve come here. What’s the occasion?”

“They’re for my dad.” 

“Mm.” Lexa ponders, hands knitted behind her back. “Birthday? Promotion? Anniversary?”

_Anniversary_ is what Clarke wants to say, but what comes out instead is:

“His grave is starting to look a little bare.”

It’s blunt. So blunt that both girls are taken aback. Lexa looks like she doesn’t know what to say, eyes flitting back and forth. And the tightness returns to Clarke’s chest like a vice grip; the stinging is sharp in her eyes.

It’s not a wave this time, it’s a tsunami.

Quickly, Clarke reaches for the closest bouquet she can get her hands on, anything to get her out of here as quick as possible. It’s been one very long year, but this is the first time she has ever let herself say anything of the like to someone who is a stranger.

Except, she doesn’t feel like a stranger. 

“These will do,” Clarke rushes through a hopefully inaudible escaped sob. She’s not even sure what flowers she has grabbed. Daffodils maybe? She doesn’t know the first thing when it comes to flowers. “How much are they?” She mutters, turning towards the cash register. 

“Wait,” Lexa says softly.

Clarke is startled to feel the hand curl around her shoulder, but not put off or offended. In fact, it’s warm and oddly very welcomed. It disappears almost too quickly. She stops and spins on her heels. The smile that had been on Lexa’s face just seconds ago has fallen into something more stoic and sympathetic. It’s well and worn and a look that Clarke recognizes; she’s seen it in herself and despite how strange and unconventional all of this feels, she is intrigued.

Lexa is intriguing.

“You don’t want these.” She reaches for the bouquet in Clarke’s hand. “These are peonies. It’s a symbol of marriage. You want these _._ ” She replaces them for something else. Something Clarke might actually recognize. 

“Tulips?” Clarke asks.

“Tulips,” Lexa confirms.

Clarke takes the bouquet while choking back a lump in her throat. Their fingers brush and their eyes meet again. Lexa’s voice is once more soft and gentle, and her gaze even more so. In that moment, something flickers between them. A spark? Clarke knows it’s deeper and more rare than that. Fine and delicate like gold dust; and under a different circumstance, that would be something to explore, something to chase.

Maybe someday.

“What do they mean?”

“Undying love.”

Clarke’s palms are sweaty around the base of bouquet and the words settle and fill in her chest where they knot themselves around her ribcage. It doesn’t last very long, that feeling of drowning because just as quickly, everything kind of slows down and hurts just a little bit less. Her shoulders feel lighter and her breath is unconstrained.

There’s a light that shines from Lexa and as succinct as it may be, it reaches the cracks that Clarke’s dad had left behind.

Crazy, but it’s almost healing. 

“They’re beautiful.” Clarke’s voice is barely a whisper. 

“Yes.” Lexa agrees with the nod of her head. “May I show you something? If you have the time.” 

Clarke is hesitant at first, but then nods back and lets Lexa lead her past a cooler of orchids and out through the backdoor, which opens to a small overgrown garden. 

The sun is bright in her eyes, but it reminds Clarke of her grandmother’s backyard, a place she had spent many a day through the years. It’s the way the flowers and plants grow in excess, the way the birds chirp lullabies, and the way the smell of fresh cut grass tickles at her nose. 

It feels like home.

She has to take a breath. 

+ 

Lexa can’t remember the last time she’s taken someone back here, let alone someone she has only just met quite literally five minutes ago. She doesn’t even know her name. Lexa can’t even remember a time where she felt like the world wasn’t caving in on her.

The grass is neatly cut, though the dandelions are haphazard; small clusters of yellow sprouting wherever they please. The cushions on the wicker patio set are rain-soaked from this morning and the single, small cherry blossom tree is finally on its way to being in full bloom. 

“Wow, this is incredible,” the girl says surveying her surroundings. There’s wonder in her eyes as Lexa watches her take in all the colours and smells. “Did you do all this?”

Lexa mouth quirks into the smallest, most bashful of smiles, something that she’s aware she hasn’t done in a while. “Yes,” she says, wondering why this girl has even agreed to follow her back here. “I started it a few years ago. It’s a work in progress, I suppose.”

“It’s lovely.”

“Thank you.” 

Lexa lets the girl wander about for a minute, lets her shove her nose into as many flowers as she wants, lets her familiarize herself with the texture of all the leaves and petals. She even lets her peak her head into the open shed, which is in need of much maintenance. Mostly, she does it because she thinks the girl could use it, a distraction, because Lexa has never met someone else before that exudes the same type of suppressed grief that she does.

She’s never met someone who she might actually share the same frequency with. 

“You paint?” The girl asks, pulling her head back out of the shed. That’s when Lexa remembers the canvas that had been abandoned nearly a year ago, a half finished painting of Costia that sits on an easel surrounded by dried up water colours in the dark. Her heart sinks slowly like a stone.

“You could say that, but not really anymore.” 

“So do I.” The girl allows herself to smile for the first time. She sets her bouquet of tulips onto a small wooden bench and turns towards Lexa, who is still standing at a distance because she’s afraid of getting too close. “Used to, anyways. After my dad, I just…” She shrugs and her voice trails off. 

Then her expression changes; it falls then lifts. It’s lighter, brighter, sparked by curiosity. “Who was that painting of?”

Lexa takes a moment, squinting her eyes from the sun. She doesn’t talk about it ever, not even with her family and right now she’s feeling more vulnerable than she ever has. She doesn’t have to say a word, she could change the subject or just lie, but instead she answers honestly. 

“Someone very special to me. I loved her and then lost her. Three years ago today, if we’re counting. This place is a memoriam to her.”

The expression on the girl’s face changes yet again. It’s almost dumbfounded for a second, then something Lexa can’t really pinpoint with a word, but she feels it. It’s weighted, for sure. Same to the way Lexa had regarded her earlier.

She realizes then that they _do_ share the same frequency. 

“ _Oh_ ,” is all the girl says.

+ 

“ _Oh._ ”

It’s all Clarke can manage to say. The words are caught in her throat. Part of her is still wondering what on earth she’s doing here—why was she so eager to follow this shopkeeper into her garden? She doesn’t believe in divine intervention, not that this is by any means a miracle, but she knows that this deserves so much more than being chalked up to a coincidence. 

This is bigger than the both of them. Clarke had felt it the second she had looked into Lexa’s eyes. It’s serendipitous to say the very least, that two people who share the anniversary of the death of a loved one would meet like this. 

“I’m sorry,” Clarke says after a beat. It’s soft this time and she watches the way Lexa deflates a little. There’s sadness behind her eyes and her jaw does this subtle twitch thing that it did once earlier when Clarke had first mentioned her dad.

“Don’t be.” Lexa shakes her head. She tucks her hands into the pockets of her apron and crosses the threshold where the brick patio turns into grass. She closes some of the distance that separates them and then stops, still leaving a weirdly undesired amount of space between then. The gravity begs them closer.

“You still don’t know my name,” Clarke says.

Lexa releases an airy laugh, almost undecipherable as one as if she had been holding something inside of her out of nervousness.

“You’re right. I don’t. What is it?”

“Clarke.” 

“ _Clarke_.” Lexa repeats it slowly, like she’s learning a new language. “That’s lovely.” Then she extends a hand out. 

Clarke meets her halfway and when their palms connect, she nearly shivers and can feel the all the hairs standing up on her neck. It feels like she’s been struck by lightning. Lexa’s touch is gentle, but firm. It’s warm in all the right places and Clarke wonders if she’ll ever be able to let go. They may hold on for just a second too long, pulses beating in synchrony.

They lose themselves in each other’s eyes trying to figure out how all of this feels so familiar.

Finally, they separate and Lexa breaks the silence. 

“I’m sure you’ve already figured out my name,” she says glancing down at her own nametag. 

Clarke simply nods. She’s too beside herself again. She feels like she has a thousand helium balloons strapped to her back trying to lift her off the ground. Eventually she settles. 

“Do you often bring your customers back here or am I the lucky 100th?” Clarke tries for some humour.

Lexa returns a smirk and the air isn’t as heavy anymore. “I’ll be lucky if I even get fifteen in a day. No one comes back here though.”

“It really is an amazing garden, Lexa. Is this what you wanted to show me?”

“Partly.” 

Lexa steps around Clarke and urges her to follow with the tilt of her head. Not that there’s really anywhere Clarke could get lost because four and half steps later Lexa has lead her in front of a large pinkish purple shrub looking thing.

+

“Do you know what these are?” Lexa asks. 

Her eyes don’t leave Clarke as Clarke slowly shakes her head, letting her hand stir through the leaves. Lexa learns quickly that behind the furrow in Clarke’s brow and the façade of braveness, there lives someone who has asked nothing from the world and yet carries the burden of it. 

“These are azaleas,” Lexa tells her. She plucks a single flower from the shrub and twirls it between her fingers before bringing it to her nose. “They don’t smell like much, unlike roses.” 

“My favourite,” Clarke interjects and Lexa’s eyes bright at the edges. 

“Roses?” 

“Yes.”

“I can’t sell these inside because they wilt too quickly, but it’s a symbol of first love that blooms into a lasting union.” Lexa hands her the flower, and if she hadn’t already been looking at Clarke, she’d have missed the scarlet blush that spread like wildfire across her cheeks.

“Forgive me if I’ve overstepped, Clarke,” Lexa continues when she realizes the mistake in her gesture, in the meaning behind her words. “But your father,” she clarifies, “he had to have loved you the second he laid eyes on you. And you, you had to have loved him before you learned what love was.” 

Clarke knots her hands in front of her stomach and her eyes remain downcast and timid. There’s still a trace of her red flush creeping down her neck and the nod of her head is so small that Lexa isn’t sure if it’s real or not. 

“I’ve never heard it put into words like that before, but yes.” Clarke’s voice is small with a noticeable waver. 

Lexa won’t admit, not just yet, but all of the years that she spent convincing herself that loving Costia was a weakness because of the way it left her feeling after she had passed, and all the time she spent telling herself she’d never open herself up to feeling something like that again are shot to hell when all she wants to do is step forward and pull Clarke into arms and just hold her there for a minute. She wants to let Clarke know she _cares_ and she _knows_ even if they’re both still trying to wrap their heads around everything that is happening right now. 

Perhaps someday she will.

“I miss him so much,” Clarke breathes. 

Lexa picks more flowers from the shrub, this time in a larger quantity, stems and all.

“I know. I hope it brings you some solace to know that just because he is gone in one way now, it doesn’t mean he isn’t going to find a way to be with you in another way.” 

“I don’t understand.” 

“Death is not the end.” 

Clarke’s eyes well.

+

The furrow in Clarke’s brow deepens in thought. Reincarnation? Not a new concept, but one she had never entertained the idea of. It seems silly to think that her father’s love or spirit could ever manifest elsewhere, that she could ever feel the same kind of fingerprints that he had left around her heart again. 

Try as she might to not overthink and overanalyze but since his passing, she has never felt quite as emotive as provoked by another person until now.

It’s not fingerprints, maybe not just yet, but it’s something. 

Despite all that, she needs a moment or ten to process this all. More importantly, she needs time to _breathe._ She’s starting to feel trapped and everything closes in on her.

She wants to have an explanation for this, any sort of sign to justify the way she’s feeling, but she’s certain that no words could ever give her that. 

This is just something that transcends much deeper. 

Clarke fidgets restlessly in place until Lexa gently urges her towards the bench. Together, they sit for a while under the shade of the cherry blossom. The sounds of mild traffic and hushed conversations from the other side of the fence do to the talking for them and Clarke pretends not to notice the way Lexa can’t keep her eyes off of her. 

“I know we just met,” Clarke says when enough time has passed. “But I didn’t tell you something. I left out a very important detail.”

“You can tell me, if you want.”

“Exactly one year ago is when I lost my father.” 

Clarke watches a wave of something wash over Lexa. A realization of sorts. 

“Clarke, I—“ 

“That has to mean for something, right?” It’s far more desperate sounding than Clarke wants it to be. “Something. _Anything._ ”

+

Lexa shifts in her seat. Her hands grip the stems of the azaleas tightly until she thinks she’s given herself cuts and blisters. She’s nervous, but doesn’t let it show. Her mind is twisting and turning as she tries for some amount of eloquence to her words because she figures Clarke deserves at least that much. 

“The world moves, Clarke. Sometimes plans don’t last very long in life. It will only tire you to mull over questions that may never have an answer.” 

Clarke turns her body and their magnetism draws them closer. Now she’s close enough that Lexa can feel the heat radiating from her, close enough to touch. Lexa keeps her hands wrapped tightly around the flowers. 

“People died,” Clarke says. “What if they died for _this_? It _has_ to mean something.”

Lexa swallows. In her head she envisions reaching out to place a hand over Clarke’s. “You’re doing what I did when I first lost Costia.” She pauses. It’s the first time she’s said her name out loud for as long as can remember. This time, however, it doesn’t feel like swords against her tongue. “You can’t move forward and it’s giving you too much time to think.” 

“What if this is my fault? What if I did something that moved the world in the wrong direction?” Clarke’s eyes are sad again, etched with a lifetime of questions that Lexa only wishes she could answer. 

“Maybe _this_ is the direction the world was meant to send you in,” she offers, turning a palm up warmly. “But _this_ is what it means to survive; to exist. The truth is, we must not look back into the eyes of those we have lost, but instead focus on those who live. The living are hungry, Clarke, just like our souls.” 

“If only it were that easy,” Clarke says. Her eyes are penetrating and it only reminds Lexa of how it feels to _feel_. “Besides, maybe life should be about more than just surviving. Don’t we deserve better than that?” 

Lexa’s heart feels heavy in her chest as the words blanket over her. She can definitely feel the world moving. It isn’t sadness, though, or anger or bitterness.

It’s simply the dynamism that is Clarke. 

“Maybe we do.”

+ 

“Will you wait here for just a moment?” Lexa asks Clarke after they’ve made a breakthrough found it in themselves to exchange lighter stories, like of their childhood or all the strange people who Lexa meets in her shop.

“Okay,” Clarke nods. “Where are you going?” 

“Just—I’ll be back soon, I promise. Please feel free to explore.”

Lexa disappears back into the store and Clarke is left watching after her while her heart is knotted in her throat. A moment feels like an eternity and Clarke grows impatient and begins to overthink again. 

It’s enough to bring her to her feet in search of Lexa with a very simple question burning on her lips. 

Clarke’s footsteps are inaudible as she creeps through the maze of plants inside the store. The air is cool against her skin, sun kissed and warm from the afternoon heat. She stops for a moment before she rounds the cooler of orchids. It’s to catch her breath and ground herself. From here she can see Lexa standing behind the counter and she looks radiant with her brown curly locks that sweep in gentle waves over her shoulders. 

She’s glowing. 

“Lexa?” Clarke’s voice is raw when she makes her presence known.

Lexa looks up from where she’s standing. She’s holding the azaleas, which have been arranged into a small bouquet held together with a neat bow. For a second she looks panicked and then concerned. 

“Clarke, is everything okay?” 

“How come you brought me of all people to your garden?” Clarke says quickly and bluntly before she can talk herself out of it.

+ 

The words are less of surprise to Lexa than Clarke’s urgency is. Even still, Lexa ponders for a second as she ties the finishing touch of the ribbon around her arrangement. Part of her knows the answer to the question, and part of her doesn’t.

She’ll answer the part she does know, but the thing is, even if she does knows what she wants to say, she knows that she would never dare to out loud because she is overtly aware how horribly dramatic and cliché it is. It reads like some sappy romance novel in her head. 

_The moment I met you, it felt like the universe had aligned. The moment I looked into your eyes, I knew that we were cut from the same cloth, that we shared the same fibers. No compass could have led me to you, just my heart synchronizing with yours._

Lexa shuffles out from behind the counter and stands before Clarke. She searches her gaze for nothing in particular; she supposes that Clarke is so beautiful that it is merely just too difficult to not. Then she settles for an answer that is simpler and less excruciating.

“You were sad and I knew a place that might have made you feel better. It’s a place built out of love and I believed at the time that was what you needed.”

Clarke picks at the cellophane that wraps her tulips. The rigidness that’s been edged into her gaze looks to have been chipped away. She’s warmer now, though Lexa knows the pain will take longer to go away.

It’s then that she realizes meeting Clarke wasn’t an accident.

It was fate.

+

“How much do I owe you?” Clarke says seemingly out of nowhere when she realizes just how long she’s been here. She remembers her phone vibrating in her purse several times but never bothered or even wanted to check it. She’s halfway reaching into it for her wallet when Lexa lays the softest touch to her hand and then quickly pulls away.

“Nothing,” Lexa says, shaking her head. She reaches over the counter for the bouquet of azaleas and holds it out to Clarke. “Take these too. They’re for your father.”

“Lexa, I—that’s very kind but let me pay you, please.” 

“Meeting you means more any payment. Let me do this for you.” 

Clarke’s mouth opens halfway like she wants to say something, but the words don’t come out. Instead, she can feel it; maybe those _were_ fingerprints she had felt earlier. It’s all the warmth she’s shut out.

“ _Lexa_.”

“Clarke, please. Your money will not be accepted here.”

“Are you sure?” 

“I would not have offered if I wasn’t.” 

The exchange coerces a smile and a laugh out of the both of them. Clarke gives in and takes the azaleas too because she can tell that Lexa is firm in her decision. The look on Lexa’s face is worth it, though. A lightness and happiness that both of them needed desperately. 

“Thank you,” Clarke says, burying her nose into the plants. There’s a hint of something sweet if she gets close enough, but Lexa is right, they don’t smell like much. 

“It’s my pleasure.” 

“I should go.” The words are reluctant but she knows she can’t take up anymore of Lexa time while she’s working. 

Lexa nods earnestly. “Okay,” is all she says, taking a small step backwards that leaves an ache between them. 

A moment of silence passes between them. A goodbye of sorts, but Clarke doesn’t want it to be one and judging by the look on Lexa’s face, neither does she. 

“Will we meet again?” Lexa asks.

“Of course,” Clarke nods. “I know where to find you.” 

This time, the attraction is much too strong and undeniable. Clarke steps forward even if her hands are full and lets herself fall into Lexa’s arms. The embrace sparks between them, their arms wrapped tightly around each other like this is what they’ve been starved of. It feels like just for that moment, they are the only two people who exist.

When they pull apart, there are traces of tears in Lexa’s eyes. It’s evident that she doesn’t want Clarke to see her like this so with that, Clarke turns around and forces herself to the front door. She has one hand on the handle when she pauses.

When she looks back one last time, Lexa has already disappeared.

+

Lexa closes her shop early. Business had been nonexistent besides Clarke today anyways. She locks up, turns off the lights and music and spends the rest of her day in the garden. For a while she just sits by the cherry blossom and tries to read. Usually it’s a way to clear her head and cleanse herself, but the thing is, she doesn’t want to. 

She doesn’t want to rid the memory of Clarke so quickly and dreads the idea that maybe she won’t see her again, that maybe this was just one of those flukes in the universe.

She can’t focus on the book anyways. 

That’s why she finds herself in the shed. The half image of Costia might still haunt her, but for the first time in almost a year, Lexa has the urge to paint again.

Only this time, she doesn’t complete the one of Costia. 

This time, under the sun and in the grass, she starts a brand new canvas for Clarke.

 

*******  

It has been exactly two months and sixteen days since Clarke last visited her father’s grave. She’s been keeping track in her journal. It’s the longest she hasn’t gone since his passing and she’s hit with a pang of guilt as she climbs the rolling hill to where he is.

It’s muscle memory by now, being able to beeline with ease through the plots.

The sun is only just beginning to set but the thought of being in a cemetery after dusk has never scared Clarke. The grass is unkempt at the edges of his headstone and remnants of flowers from past visitors still decorate the surrounding area. Carefully, she clears it all away and sets the tulips and azaleas down against the stone. 

Clarke doesn’t realize how much she’s crying until she feels the tears rolling down her neck. It hasn’t gotten easier just yet, coming here, but after her encounter with Lexa today—and it’s crazy how she can’t stop thinking about her—she feels more at peace. She doesn’t feel the crushing enormity of losing the person she loved most in the world. It’s naturally makes her want to run out of the cemetery and hide herself under the covers of her bed until all the hurt fades into numbness. 

Instead, today she stays. Today, she doesn’t hide from the pain.

She settles onto the grass, legs outstretched before her and body angled towards her dad’s headstone. There, she lets herself speak quiet, meaningful words. 

“I miss you,” is the thing she says while she wipes away her tears with the back of her hand. 

Then she tells him that mom is getting better, that there are still nights when she can hear her crying through the wall that separates their bedrooms. But it’s getting less frequent—she’s laughing more. 

She shows him the new sketches and paintings she’s done from the sketchbook she pulls from her purse. She takes a pencil too and absently starts to trace an outline of a certain someone she might have met not too long ago.

She reads him a few passages from her favourite book, _The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe_. Coincidentally, it’s only her favourite book because it was her dad’s and he would read it to her until she was old enough to understand it and read it on her own. Now she’s just retuning the favour. 

Then, she tells him about the pretty girl from the flower shop.

She tells him about her smile, how rare and beautiful it was; she tells him about her eyes, the way they could speak with brilliance; and she tells him about her hands, how they were the most beautiful hands she had ever seen, the way they were so smooth and graceful. 

She doesn’t say this part out loud, but if she closes her eyes, she can still feel Lexa’s fingers wrapped around hers even if the contact only lasted seconds. She can still feel Lexa’s body pressed against her. 

It’s funny, Clarke thinks, or absolutely illogical and farfetched because she’s never believed in the hokum of soulmates or even love at first sight. But there’s no other explanation, nothing else to deduce from what today has brought her.

Not only peace and understanding, but a hopeful sense of freedom.

When the sun has set and the air turns cool and grey, Clarke decides to leave. She brushes the grass and dirt from her pants, packs her belongings and arranges the tulips and azaleas purposefully. Her parting words as the sky starts to polka with stars are, 

“You can thank Lexa for these. I think you would have liked her. She’s beautiful, like the flowers. Hopefully I’ll be able to tell you more stories of her.”

 

 

It’s not until Clarke is back in her car in the parking lot that she notices a small white folded card on her passenger seat. It must have accidentally detached itself from the azaleas. She might have noticed it earlier but was too distracted to make anything of it.

She flicks on the light, opens it, and the inside is penned with neat cursive.

> _You were right, Clarke. Life is about more than just surviving._
> 
> _May we meet again._
> 
> _Lexa._

On the bottom corner is a phone number.

Clarke’s chest feels like it might burst. Her heart sings tenderly from its core. Lexa was right too.

Perhaps this _is_ the direction the world was meant to send her in.

  

 

Later that night when Clarke gets home, after she eats and showers and tells her mom about her day while they curl up together on the couch, she quietly slinks away up the stairs and through the shadows of the hallway to her bedroom. There, she props herself onto her windowsill while she traces the edges of the note card and the bumps and grooves of the lettering with her fingers. She reaches for her phone and nervously taps the number into it. Her thumb hovers over the call button for a moment but she can’t think of a reason to not press it.

Lexa picks up midway through the first ring. Her voice is low and scratchy, but expectant. 

Clarke’s voice is shaky, but the sound of Lexa calms her. She thanks her again for the flowers and her kindness and Lexa tells her she only wished she could have stayed longer.

They spend the rest of the night talking and laughing and even crying. It’s mostly happy tears this time, though there’s still that brokenness that bonds them. They talk until their voices are hoarse and gone, until Clarke falls into her bed and they’re practically asleep and the sky starts to colour orange with the new day’s sun. 

“Goodnight, Lexa,” Clarke says, hand resting over her heart. 

“Goodnight, Clarke,” Lexa replies and just for an instant they listen to each other breathing before the line goes silent.

 

 

For almost a week they exchange texts and phone calls. Clarke sends Lexa pictures of random flowers and Lexa tells her what they are and what they mean. Lexa sends Clarke songs that she’ll later fall asleep listening to and wake up dreaming about.

When the days have become too many, Clarke goes back to Lexa’s flower shop for no other reason than she _has_ to see her again otherwise she might go crazy. When she gets there, the rusty bike display she had enjoyed out front is gone. However, it’s replaced by the most extravagant display of roses Clarke has ever seen.

It’s so big and red and so _wonderful._  

“Hi,” Clarke sighs with happy relief when she enters and immediately spots Lexa. 

Lexa hadn’t heard the door chime and looks up from the cooler of orchids with surprise. Clarke had never explicitly stated she was coming because if Lexa were to check the timestamp of Clarke’s last text message, it was only 17 minutes ago and a picture of her planting lilies in her yard.

“Clarke,” she breathes, eyes lightning up.

Clarke stills for a moment, suddenly overwhelmed again because in this new light, Lexa is so much more beautiful than she remembers.

“What happened to the bike?”

“You said roses were your favourite.”

It’s love that Clarke feels. She’s sure of it because she sees it reflected back in Lexa’s eyes.

They both smile, big and bright and free. When the earth doesn’t feel like it’s spinning sideways, all that’s left to do is close the space that separates them.

The embrace feels familiar, they way Clarke’s chin nestles comfortably into the crook of Lexa’s neck and the way Lexa’s arms are strong and safe around Clarke. 

It means something different this time. It’s not a rushed and heavy goodbye in an unusual circumstance. It’s not laced with this bleak undertone.

This is hello, a new beginning.

This is that _someday_ they have both been dreaming of.

 

_**end** _

**Author's Note:**

> anyways clexa fandom it's been real. this will probably be my last clexa fic (although i think i said that once before and look where we are). anyways. i have always appreciated your kind words and feedback and i'm glad i could have put a smile on your faces after you know what happened.
> 
> peace and love fam  
> may we meet again


End file.
